


For love of paper and ink

by orphan_account



Series: Decidedly Odd Encounters [1]
Category: Gods Of London Sequence, Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Katie Sherwood And Crowley are Mentioned..., Minor GO canon divergence, Post-Armageddon’t, Shipping, bookshops, discussion over drinks, old cars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-04-06 06:32:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19057141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Two odd booksellers meet in a Mayfair bar.





	For love of paper and ink

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU that literally nobody asked for, but it wouldn’t go away. Enjoy. Fledgling Gods is my novel, and that stuff should explain itself. Written and Edited at 11 pm because I am a hyperactive idiot.

Jack Hallowell sighed and shifted uneasily on her barstool, waiting to hear the particularly distinctive exhaust-note of a rather distinctive car. She was sitting in The Panic Room, a small bar between the Rowland Building and Rothscaster House, which put it somewhere near the middle of Mayfair. 

 

Well... to most people it was The Panic Room; but she knew it as  _ Rendezvous point A .  _

 

She’d gotten a text that morning, from a number listed in her contacts as “ Lioness ”, requesting to meet at exactly nine-PM sharp. But Katie Sherwood had never been punctual. Never. It was now ten-minutes past ten*. 

 

The last time she had seen Katie had been just under a month ago. She and her cousin, the great Tiger Rowlands himself, had been attending a gala held by the Alvis Owners’ Club, showing off his pride and joy, a burgundy 1939 model painted the same wine-red hue that he often used to paint his nails, because Tiger was an odd duck and often dragged his cousin into these things. 

Jack had been casing the joint. The year had been 2012**. 

 

A voice pulled her from her musings; it was a nice voice, a comforting and expressive voice as soft and smooth as old velvet. It was the kind of cut-glass London voice that a few of her associates had, just without the edges knocked off. 

 

“Ah..” Said the voice. “Excuse me, my dear young lady, but does this seat happen to be free?”

 

“‘Course it is.” Said Jack, turning. “Feel free to take it. ‘M waiting for a friend, but it doesn’t look like the absolute madwoman is going to show.”

 

The speaker was a kindly-looking man, dressed smartly; although his clothes were slightly worn and vaguely anachronistic. He had short, fluffy white-blond hair, and smile-lines around his eyes, and he looked utterly harmless, if not more than a little eccentric.***

 

“Thank you.” He said, and flagged the bartender over. “The 1922 Chateneuf-de-Pape, please.” 

 

Jack whistled as the wine-bottle was slid across the polished mahogany surface of the bar-top, envisioning the hefty price-tag that such a vintage would come with. 

 

“Wow. You have good taste.” 

 

A healthy glass-full was poured, and he took a drink. Jack vaulted over the bar and got herself an Appletizer from the cooler, gesturing to the bar’s owner to simply put it on her tab. And then, just as gracefully, she shimmied back over to the other side and re-took her seat with a feline sense of blasé dignity about the whole event.

 

“Have you ever tried it, then?” Wine-Guy asked her, tilting his head curiously, and in the half-light she could swear that his eyes were glowing slightly. 

 

“Once.” Jack said. “At a charity dinner. It was frightfully dull, so I had to find something to cheer myself up.”

 

“Ah.” He said, and frowned, looking vaguely crestfallen before taking another hearty gulp of the wine. 

 

“Look.” Said Jack. “I don’t mean to pry, but... bad day?”

 

He sighed. “You could say that.. my bookshop... well, it burnt down.”

 

Jack gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “I’ve been there.” She said. “All my books, my antiques, all gone just like-“ 

And then she paused. 

“Wait a minute, I heard about that on the news! Fell’s, wasn’t it? A. Z. Fell and Co.?”

 

He gave a tired smile. “That was it, yes.”

 

“Oh,” Said Jack. “Oh, I’m so sorry. It’s such a shame; I’d loved that place for ages.”**** 

She held out her hand for him to shake. 

 

“I’m Jack Hallowell, I run a place up in Reading. Hallowell’s Haven, purveyors of Rare Volumes and Antiquarian Oddities?Y’might’ve heard of it.”

 

He took her hand and shook it. “Ezra Fell. It’s a pleasure, dear.”

 

“Hey, weren’t you at that big estate sale a few months ago? I’m sure you were.”

 

“Oh, yes. You bought that big marble table.” He said, cocking an eyebrow. 

 

“You walked away with that Binns manuscript. Goodness, I was mad for days!” Jack laughed, and swigged her fizzy apple juice, cackling. “You lucky bugger. Snagged it from right under my nose!”

 

“Yes. Quite.” He paused. “If you don’t mind me asking... you said your bookshop burned down?”

 

Jack sighed, tracing patterns on the worn wood of the bar counter. “Yep. Greek fire and a nineteenth-century oil lamp did it. The building stayed standing, barely. Nothing salvageable. I reopened in a new property, a little sixteenth-century cottage. You?”

 

“A candle fell over. I was able to replace most of it, but it’s not quite the same.”

 

Both parties sobered at that. 

 

“I guess it never is.” Jack mumbled. “When you lose things, I mean. Places. People. Like, my best friend, her cousin’s been unofficially missing for a few weeks now, but we were told that he was going into hiding, so... everything has changed.”

 

“It’s quite ineffable, my dear Miss Hallowell.” 

 

A phone rang, and Jack checked her pockets before saying, “Must be yours.”

The ringtone was Queen’s “ _you’re my best friend_ ”, and Jack couldn’t help but think of Katie. 

 

“D’you know what,” she said, as Mr. Fell rummaged in his pockets, “My mate Katie, her car eats CDs it doesn’t like?”

 

“My friend’s Bentley turns everything into Queen.” The older bookseller grumbled.

 

“Ooh, a Bentley? Talk about a dream car- what sort?”

 

He found his phone with a yell of triumph, only to accidentally turn it off in his haste to find the right button to take the call.

 

“1926, I think.”

 

“No freaking way.” Jack breathed. “I think I saw one once. This friend of yours... tall redheaded bloke with sunglasses, looks a bit like the Tenth Doctor from Doctor Who?”

 

“Yes.” Came the answer. “That does sound like Crowley.”

 

“And, by friend, do you mean  _boy_ friend ?”

 

Mr. Fell scowled. “Why does everyone assume that?”

 

“Because you two would be an adorable couple.” Said Jack, who’d started taking vodka shots as the clock hands turned towards eleven and was already well over the threshold of tipsiness. 

 

“Oh, yes.” He blushed. “I see.. thank-you.” 

 

Jack stood up to leave, somewhat unsteadily. “Looks like she’s not coming after all. If you’re ever in the Reading area, feel free to pop in. I’ll give you a tour.”

 

Mr Fell nodded, and the two odd booksellers shook hands and parted, both with heavy weights of secrets upon their shoulders.

**Author's Note:**

> * Her friend always blamed the M25, but Jack knew that motorways or speed-cameras were no object for the other woman. The traffic authorities simply blinked or looked the other way when a particular Ford Capri went by.
> 
> ** time-travelling, as anyone can tell you, is a messy business.
> 
> *** AKA her favourite type of person. They made for interesting conversation.
> 
> ****She’d been there at the grand opening in 1789.


End file.
